My Son Called My 1892 Patek Philippe Heirloom “Worthless Junk” And Demanded Cash Instead. So I Sold It At Auction For $87,000 And Cut Him Off. Now He’s Suing Me For “Mental Incompetence.” Am I The Jerk?
The Birthday Gift
I gave my son a vintage pocket watch for his 40th birthday, and he laughed in my face and called it worthless junk. Three weeks later, I sold it at auction for $87,000. When he found out, he tried to have me declared mentally incompetent, but that was only the beginning.
The wrapping paper was navy blue, classic. I’d chosen it because my son used to love that color as a boy. Used to—past tense covers a lot of ground when you’re talking about the people your children become. My son held the velvet box, turned it over twice.
His wife, Meredith, leaned in, eyes bright, expecting something. A check, probably. They always expected checks now.
“Dad, what is this?” His voice carried that tone, the one that said he was already disappointed before opening it.
“It’s your grandfather’s pocket watch,” I kept my hands steady. “1892 Patek Philippe. Been in our family for generations.”
He opened the box. The watch gleamed under the kitchen lights of my Portland home: gold case, porcelain dial, hand-engraved hunting scene on the back. My father wore it every Sunday, his father before him. My son stared at it like I’d handed him a dead fish.
“A pocket watch? Yes, Dad, nobody carries pocket watches anymore.” He actually laughed. “This isn’t 1920.”
Meredith’s smile had frozen. Her eyes did quick math: pocket watch, old, not a check, not jewelry she could wear. Worthless.
“It’s an antique,” I said carefully. “Significant value, both monetary and sentimental.”
“Sentimental?” My son set the box on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker like it was junk mail. “Dad, we talked about this. We need practical help right now, not old stuff from your collection.”
“Practical help?”
“The mortgage is killing us,” Meredith’s voice pitched high. “You know we’re struggling.”
“I know you bought a boat last summer.”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
My son stepped closer. His cologne was expensive; I noticed these things. 40 years of evaluating fine things—watches, jewelry, estate pieces—I knew what money smelled like. He was wearing more than he could afford.
“Look, Dad, I appreciate the gesture, really, but this just isn’t useful to us right now. Maybe you could return it to wherever you got it? Get something more practical?”
“Return it or donate it,” Meredith nodded eagerly. “Tax write-off for you, right? There’s that charity shop on Hawthorne. They take antiques.”
I stood very still. 40 years of customer service taught me that skill: the art of not reacting when someone insults you to your face.
“That watch,” I said quietly, “belonged to your great-great-grandfather. He carried it through Ellis Island.”
“That’s nice, Dad,” my son checked his phone. “But we can’t pay our mortgage with family history.”
The birthday cake sat on the table: German chocolate, his favorite since age six. I’d made it from scratch, started at 5:00 a.m. He hadn’t touched it. I picked up the velvet box, closed it carefully.
“You’re right. I’ll find it a better home.”
“Great. Thanks for understanding.”
I left before they served the cake. I drove home in the rain. Portland in October: gray and wet. Appropriate.
The Appraisal
My workshop waited at the back of the house, a converted garage. 40 years of tools, equipment, reference books. I’d retired from Harrison and Sons Fine Timepieces two years ago, sold the business for enough to never worry again.
The watch sat on my workbench. I opened the case, examined the movement under magnification. Same as always: perfect Swiss precision from an era when craftsmanship meant something.
My phone showed three texts from my son Jean: Thanks again for coming by. Sorry if that was awkward. Let me know about that tax write-off thing.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I scrolled through contacts, stopped at one name: Rebecca Chen, Sabby’s Portland office. We’d authenticated pieces together for 15 years. My thumb hovered two seconds, three. I tapped.
Rebecca, it’s Walter Ashford. I have something for your November auction. Something special.
The watch sat in my passenger seat, buckled in with more care than my son had shown it. November 3rd, Sabby’s regional office downtown. Glass and steel building. I knew which elevator, which floor. Coming home felt exactly like this.
Rebecca met me in the examination room: same sharp blazer, same pearl earrings. 20 years and she still looked like she could authenticate a Breguet in her sleep.
“Walter Ashford,” she smiled. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Depends on what you’re thinking.”
She unwrapped it on the examination table. Her hands stopped. “I’m thinking Patek Philippe, 1892 hunting case, museum quality. I’m thinking you’ve been hiding this from me for years.”
“It was a family piece. The recipient didn’t appreciate it.”
“Then the recipient is a fool.”
The examination took 45 minutes: magnification, UV light, movement inspection, case marks. Everything my son hadn’t bothered to ask about.
“Provenance?”
“Direct family line since 1892. Original purchase receipt from Geneva. Immigration documents showing it entered the US in 1903. I have everything.”
She made notes, consulted her tablet. “Current market for pieces like this is exceptional. Collectors are hungry for documented family provenance. I’m thinking six figures.”
“Six figures?” My son’s worthless junk was worth six figures.
“How soon can you auction it?”
“November 15th, our Fall Collection. This will be a highlight.”
“Conservative estimate?”
She looked up. “$75,000 to $95,000. Possibly more if the right collectors attend.”
I remembered my father’s funeral, 1998. The watch in my pocket, heavy with responsibility. “Take care of this, Walter,” he’d said in the hospital. “Pass it to someone who understands.”
I’d tried. I’d failed.
The consignment papers took 10 minutes. Standard contract. My pen moved to sign, stopped. Should I tell my son first? The thought lasted half a second. My pen moved.
“Second thoughts?” Rebecca watched me.
“None.”
“Do you want the sale confidential? We can keep it out of the public catalog.”
“No need.”
Wrong answer. I should have said yes, but I assumed my son would never see an auction catalog. He didn’t read them, didn’t care about them. Assumptions make interesting mistakes.
The Auction
November 15th arrived. Clear sky, cold. Portland sparkled after the rain. I wore my charcoal suit, burgundy tie. Sabby’s auction room filled with collectors, the smell of money and anticipation mixed into something familiar. I sat in the back row.
Lot 23 came up. The auctioneer’s voice carried, professional, practiced. “Patek Philippe pocket watch, circa 1892, hunting case, 18-karat gold. Documented provenance from 1892 to present. Opening bid $50,000.”
Paddles rose. Phone lines lit up. “$55,000. $60,000. We have $65,000.”
The bidding war lasted two minutes. Two minutes to undo four generations of careful stewardship. “$80,000. $85,000.” The room held its breath. “Fair warning.”
The hammer fell. Sharp crack. Final. “Sold. $87,000.”
Applause rippled. Rebecca caught my eye from across the room, smiled. My passenger seat stayed empty on the drive home.
The phone rang that evening. My son. I let it go to voicemail. Rang again. Meredith. Voicemail. Third call, unknown number. I picked up.
“Dad,” my son’s voice strained. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I noticed.”
“Did you sell Grandpa’s watch?”
Silence, heavy. “How did you know?”
“Meredith’s cousin works in antiques. Saw the Sabby’s results online. There was a photo. That was our watch.”
“Your watch? Interesting.”
“Dad, you got $87,000 for it?”
“I got $87,000 for my watch. Yes.”
“That was supposed to be mine.”
“You called it worthless junk. Suggested I donate it to the charity shop on Hawthorne.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean, exactly?”
His breathing changed. Calculating. “We should talk about this in person. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I hung up, turned off my phone. The war had begun.
